by J. T. Edson
From hurling away the arrow, Dusty’s right hand swung across and up. Caught by the full force of a back-hand slap, the tuivitsi went sprawling into his companions’ arms and prevented all but one from making any sudden moves. To the side of the rest, the unentangled brave started to draw the knife from its sheath at his belt. He learned then how Dusty Fog gained the name of Magic Hands.
Dusty’s left hand flickered across towards his right side in a move so fast that the eye could barely follow it. Out came the off-side Colt, its trigger depressed and hammer drawn back the instant the barrel slanted away from Dusty’s body. Shock and astonishment showed on the tuivitsi’s face and he froze as would any sensible white man when faced with Dusty’s lined, cocked and ready Army Colt. Nor did the rest of the group make any moves. All stood staring as if they could not believe their eyes. So might a diamondback rattlesnake have looked if the rabbit it attacked suddenly proved to have fangs, claws and a complete immunity to poison.
‘The choice is yours,’ Dusty announced in Spanish, having heard the Kid claim that most Pehnane understood that language.
‘Think well, Rides Backwards,’ called Long Walker. ‘That is Magic Hands.’
Slowly the tuivitsi’s hand came away from the hilt of his knife and his companions lost their hostile intentions fast. No man need feel shame at being beaten by a name-warrior of Magic Hands’ standing. Respect flickered on the braves’ faces; much the same kind of expression which came to white men of their age on becoming acquainted with Dusty Fog.
‘My apologies, Magic Hands,’ said Long Walker in Spanish, advancing and holding out his hand. ‘They are only young.’
The Colt pin-wheeled on Dusty’s trigger-finger and flipped back into its holster, watched by the young braves who had never seen a real top gun fighter in actions He looked at the tuivitsi with the tolerant acceptance to one who was tehnap and could excuse wildness in youth.
‘They’ll learn,’ he replied. ‘Happen they don’t do something else foolish and get killed.’
‘You think like a Comanche,’ smiled the chief. ‘Come into my tipi, we have much to say.’
On entering the tipi, Dusty settled down to squat on his heels with almost the same ease as his host and the Kid.
‘How about the young buck I knocked down, Lon?’ he asked.
‘He’s learned his lesson,’ drawled the Kid. ‘A tuivitsi who acts up with a tehnap asks for all he gets.’
‘That is so among your people, too,’ smiled Long Walker. ‘Cuchilo has told me of the Waw’ai, Magic Hands, They tried to kill your uncle.’
‘And other people,’ Dusty answered, going on to tell the chief all he learned of the Waw’ai attempts and successes.
‘We will go and speak with the Waw’ai old ones,’ Long Walker declared.
‘Will they tell you anything if Fire Dancer put a death curse on them?’
‘Fire Dancer never learned how to put on a curse that Raccoon Talker couldn’t take off one handed, left-handed at that, Dusty,’ replied the Kid, ‘You tell grandpappy what you want to know and he’ll see that you get the answers.’
‘I’d say that the first thing is to learn where the main Waw’ai camp is,’ Dusty suggested.
‘That can be arranged easily,’ Long Walker promised. ‘Come we will see the Waw’ai now. Tonight, Magic Hands, I would ask you to make speech to the chiefs.’
‘Will they listen to me?’
‘They listened when you spoke at the council of the Devil Gun.’
‘Then I’ll do it,’ Dusty said.
Leaving the tipi, Long Walker told one of his wives to fetch a horse for Dusty. With the party mounted, they rode through the village and Dusty learned all he could of the prevailing state of affairs. So far there had been little contact between the assembled Comanches and the white people. Wisely the commanding officer at the Fort ruled that the Indian villages be off limits to members of his command. Wishing to avoid any chance of trouble, the chiefs ordered their braves to keep out of the Fort.
Dusty realized that the placid condition meant little. If there should be an organized plan to disrupt the council, its originators would probably be waiting until the full Senatorial Committee assembled before starting whatever they had in mind. By proving to such an influential body that the Comanche did not want peace, further attempts at re-settling the Indians on decent land would be rigorously opposed at government level.
Yells and whoops came to the trio’s ears as they rode towards the Water-Horse village and caused them to swing away from their path. Reaching the top of the slope, they looked down at the start of a horse race being watched by half-a-dozen soldiers and the same number of Indians.
Only two horses competed in the race and, on the face of it, there hardly seemed any doubt as to the outcome. A small soldier, showing signs of having trained on race-courses back East, rode a big, fine-looking bay; being matched against a big, bulky Comanche afork just about the most ugly and unlikely animal Dusty had seen. Small, roman-nosed, with a tail that would have looked good on a rat, the Indian pony ought to have been left standing, especially when bearing such a hefty load. Incredibly it was not. Instead the little horse began to draw ahead of its finely-built opponent.
‘Man oh man!’ drawled the Kid. ‘I always knew soldiers weren’t smart, but don’t this beat all?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Dusty, staring at the speeding horses.
‘They’d fall for the shell-and-pea game, was it tried on them,’ the Kid said caustically.
The yells of the soldiers died uncertainly away as they became aware that their horse stood no chance. Racing along at a speed which amazed its white audience, the Indian pony increased its lead to such a point that its rider drew rein and waited for the other horse to draw near then galloped away again.
Watching the race, if race it could be called, Dusty felt puzzled. Skilled in esquestrian matters, he could see that the bay was not being held back by its rider; which had at first struck him as a distinct possibility, Knowing soldiers, Dusty doubted that they raced for pleasure and had most probably laid bets on their horse winning. They could have planned to let the Indian win by a short head so as to gain an increase in the bets on a second race. From their reactions. Dusty concluded that, if such had been the plan, it went sadly wrong.
‘If I wasn’t seeing it,’ Dusty said, starting down towards the audience, ‘I wouldn’t believe it possible.’
Clearly one the soldiers felt much the same way.
‘It’s a trick!’ roared a big, bulky soldier. ‘A lousy, stinking trick!’
Dropping from his borrowed horse, Dusty advanced fast and unnoticed as the soldiers showed signs of agreeing with their companion4 The race came to an end as the Indian pony loped over a line drawn in the dirt, coming in a good six lengths ahead of the lathered roan and showing no signs of distress.
‘Look like we win,’ one of the Comanche braves told the soldiers. ‘You pay um bets off now?’
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll pay you!’ the burly soldier answered, moving forward and knocking open the flap of his holster.
‘You make-um bet,’ growled the Comanche, ‘Now you pay up. White soldier horse beaten good and plenty.’
Dusty knew he must act, and quickly, if he hoped to prevent an open explosion of trouble. Inveterate gamblers, the Comanche braves would never permit the soldiers to leave without paying and a fight, even if it ended without somebody getting killed, must inevitably lead to further incidents.
Experience as a lawman had taught Dusty that the best way to handle such a situation was in prompt, definite and, if possible, spectacular fashion, He figured that, all things taken into consideration, he possessed the way to do just the right sort of handling,
Darting forward, Dusty bounded into the air as Tommy Okasi taught him and delivered a mae tobi geri forward jump kick. Normally such an attack would be aimed to strike its recipient’s head or upper torso. Dusty varied the theme a little in that his left foot struck the
soldier’s shoulder and his right caught the Comanche on the upper arm. Coming so unexpectedly added force to the power of impact and shot both men staggering to crash to the grounds Dusty landed back on his feet and swung to face the rest of the soldiers, leaving handling the Comanches to Long Walker.
‘Back off!’ the small Texan roared.
Such was Dusty’s inborn power to command that he brought the soldiers to a halt. None of them could figure out just who Dusty might be, but they knew full well what he was. Being men with a few years of Army Service behind them, all recognized the small Texan’s tone; that of a tough officer backing the authority vested in him by the Manual of Field Regulations with a pair of hard fists. True, the intruder did not wear a uniform, but officers occasionally did walk out in civilian clothes and some even adopted the dress of a working cowhand; although few wore it in the manner born, as did the man before them.
A barked command from Long Walker drew the eyes of the braves his way. They belonged to the Pehnane band and knew their chief did not lightly take to having his orders ignored. Before any of the braves could decide what to do, something happened to draw them and the soldiers’ thoughts away from hostilities against each other.
Letting out a snarl of rage, the burly soldier rose and diverted his anger from the Comanche to Dusty. Apparently the soldier was so furious that he failed to see the danger, for he rushed at the small Texan in a bull-like charge. Dusty waited in a slightly crouched position the Kid knew all too well, but which the soldier failed to recognize. Out stabbed the small Texan’s hands, catching the man’s right wrist. Pivoting until his back halted the soldier’s rush, Dusty used the kata-seoi one side shoulder throw; a most impressive method in that it sent the one receiving it sailing over the giver’s shoulder and deposited him flat on his back some distance from where he took off.
Just as angry at being attacked, the Comanche bounced erect, jerked the knife from its sheath and charged forward in the hope that the Texan found himself too busy handling the soldier to notice the fresh danger.
‘Magic Hands!’ yelled Long Walker, conscious that he could not arrive in time to help Dusty and surprised that his grandson refrained from taking a hand.
Turning, Dusty saw his danger and acted on it with commendable speed. Up swung the Comanche’s knife and drove down again. Dusty lunged aside, avoiding the blow. Landing on his hands and left knee, he drove the right leg in a roundhouse kick into the man’s belly. Even as pain knifed into the Comanche and the breath gushed from his lips, Dusty placed the foot against his rump and shoved hard. Shooting forward, his knife having fallen when the boot landed, the Indian crashed to the ground and lay gasping in an attempt to regain his kick-ejected breath.
Without a glance at his two attackers, Dusty bounded to his feet. He swung towards the remainder of the soldiers.
‘What’s all this about?’ he barked.
Only with an obvious effort did the men manage to tear their eyes from their still recumbent companion4 Bully Taylor had quite a reputation as a fighting man and anybody who could flatten him with such ease deserved attention and respect.
‘This here bunch of Injuns got talking about hoss-racing to us — sir,’ the only non-com, a corporal, replied.
‘How?’ demanded Dusty, before the corporal could go further.
‘How?’ repeated the non-com.
‘The Indian camp and area is off-limits to all soldiers,’ Dusty pointed out in a chilling tone.
Taking a legal stand in the matter seemed like the best way to follow up the advantage gained by showing his physical superiority. So it proved. Under Dusty’s coldly accusing eyes, none of the soldiers could start to think up a suitable explanation for their disobedience of a strict ruling laid down by their commanding officer. Glaring at the men in the manner of a martinet officer determined to maintain discipline, Dusty told the corporal to finish his excuse and make it good.
‘We’re on wood detail, sir,’ the non-com answered. ‘Met this bunch here and got to talking. Started joshing them about that ugly little hoss and when they told us it could run — Well, sir, just take a look at it—’
Despite the gravity of the situation Dusty could not help smiling inwardly at the corporal and soldiers’ attitudes. Outwardly, however, he retained his grim, unsmiling attitude. Discipline in the U.S. Army tended to be enforced by painful methods, especially on a frontier post. So none of the soldiers wished to antagonize him, not knowing what rank he held or caring to chance asking about it.
‘I’m still listening,’ Dusty said.
‘We talked some more, sir, and the Indians wanted to bet that their hoss had the legs of anything we could show. Hell, sir, we couldn’t miss a chance like that!’
‘Only you lost.’ Dusty reminded him.
‘Yes, sir,’ admitted the corporal.
‘And don’t want to pay off. That’s about what I’d expect of the 8th Cavalry,’ sniffed Dusty and swung towards where the Kid and Long Walker sat their horses in the background. ‘You, scout, tell the chief that his men have cheated U.S.—’
‘Asking the — your pardon, sir,’ the corporal put in.
‘Wait until I’ve dealt with the chief, corporal!’ Dusty barked. ‘I’ll order him to have the bets called off.’
A low mutter of protest came from the listening soldiers; just as Dusty expected it would. While the soldiers might consider they were the victims of a trick, all knew it came about through their own making. Dusty’s comment about the 8th Cavalry’s lack of sporting qualities had been made deliberately. Knowing he had no authority to order the bets be paid — and realizing the consequences if the soldiers welshed on the wagers — Dusty used devious methods to achieve his ends. No soldier would want a man who apparently belonged to some rival outfit witness him perform an act of poor sportsmanship.
‘We want to pay off the bets, sir,’ one man stated.
‘Sure we do,’ agreed another and the remainder rumbled assent.
‘What did you bet?’ Dusty asked.
‘Small things, sir. Watches, rings, bandanas,’ the corporal replied. ‘We’d not bet guns or anything like that.’
‘Did the Indians ask you to?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You wanting me to tell the chief anything, Cap’n?’ asked the Kid.
‘Tell him that my men will pay their bets,’ Dusty answered.
‘And when you’ve done it, corporal, I suggest that you get on with your detail. By the Great Horned Toad, if I had you in my outfit—’
Dusty allowed the threat to trail away, giving the impression that at any minute he might decide his duty was to report the affair.
While the soldiers paid off their wagers, including the man Dusty made peace with, Long Walker growled Comanche advice to the braves. Although the buck who had tried to knife Dusty looked a mite sullen, he saw the wisdom of not trying further conclusions with Magic Hands of legendary fame. However Dusty wanted to avoid giving the impression of siding with the Indians against his own kind.
‘Does that chief speak English, scout?’ he barked.
‘Just a mite, Cap’n,’ replied the Kid, catching on to the play and following Dusty’s lead.
‘Then tell him that I consider this whole fuss is the fault of his braves. I hold him responsible for the whole affair.’
‘I’ll do just that, Cap’n,’ promised the Kid and proceeded to spout his fluent Comanche in his grandfather’s direction, sticking to what Dusty said in case any of the soldiers understood the language.
Give Long Walker full credit, thought Dusty, he acted just right. Looking reluctant to lay blame on his men, but unwilling to go against an influential member of the treaty council, the chief apologized through his ‘interpreter! and promised it would not happen again.
‘See that it doesn’t!’ Dusty barked. ‘And take your men to their village.’
Although that meant putting off the visit to the Waw’ai delegation, Dusty figured it must be done. He wanted to see the soldiers b
ack into the Fort and prevent the chance of further trouble. Acting as he had gave the men confidence in him, but he did not want to start them wondering why he did not demand the return of their property.
After Long Walker and his braves returned to the village, the corporal drew himself into a brace and saluted. Judging by the way that Indian-dark scout acted and addressed the small man, he held captain’s rank. While one might occasionally play up a shavetail lieutenant, such a game did not pay when dealing with a full two bar captain.
‘About this, sir—’ the non-com began, wondering what action the captain aimed to take against the private who tried to attack him,
‘I’d suggest that you forget it, corporal, happen you want to keep those bars on your arm,’ Dusty answered. ‘The only reason I’m no taking action is that your Colonel would court-martial you all for sure and I’d hate to have it known that members of the U.S. Cavalry were hawg-stupid enough to be suckered into a horse race,’
‘Reckon they’ll do it, Dusty?’ the Kid asked, watching the soldiers head back to the Fort.
‘I reckon they will,’ Dusty replied1 ‘Anyways, I’ll go back after them. Tell Long Walker I’ll be along to talk with the chiefs tonight.’
‘It could have been bad,’ the Kid said soberly. ‘Happen the soldier started throwing lead, or that tehnap used the knife, both sides would have painted for war.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Thing being, Lon, was it just chance or did somebody set them soldiers up for it?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE PURPOSE OF THE LANCERS
BEFORE Dusty or the Kid could form any conclusion on the averted trouble, a voice came to their ears.
‘Hey, Dusty, Lon!’
Turning, they saw Mark Counter approaching and waited to learn what their amigo might be wanting.
